Please forgive the title. Now I would not say I am a particular connoisseur of art (the drawing, painting kind I mean). I know very little about it, but the pre-Raphaelites have long held a fascination for me. It was along the River Hogsmill, near to where I grew up, that Ophelia was painted. There’s a lovely mosaic of the girl in the bathtub made by local schoolchildren, funded by among other people, Fulham FC whose training ground is around the corner.
Anyway in that long quiet dull summer of 2020, I was feeling rather upbeat about a few things I will not trouble you with. Perhaps that was linked to government policy as regards their generosity for helping out the eating-out-middle-classes. I went on a run, a kind of loop which passes by one of my favourite spots (there are many), St John the Baptist church, Old Malden, right on the Surrey/London border. I took a sejour to look at the signs, more so that my dog, Paddy, or Patrick when he’s naughty, (so really, Patrick), could do his business. An info sign about beetles got my attention, and then I turned to one about the pre-Raphs. Ah, how did I not know that these green meadows were not only the backdrop to Ophelia. Apparently William Holman-Hunt painted his allegorical painting, The Light of the World nearby too (yes I know what you are thinking, are not all the pre-Raph paintings allegorical).
To quote Jason Rosenfeld, the pre-Raphs went to great lengths at such sites;
“To paint the picture Millais adopted the precision of his practice the summer before, working long hours on the Hogsmill River near Ewell, two miles from his lodgings. Millais was working eleven hour days, fending off ‘muscular’ flies, sitting under an inadequate umbrella, threatened by a bull in an adjacent field, buffeted by whipping winds and at the mercy of two swans who persisted in positioning themselves in his work spot or eating the water weeds he was attempting to paint on the left side of the canvas. These were the lengths that the true Pre-Raphaelite went to in order to paint the truth of nature!”
Lengths indeed. I wondered what lengths I was willing to go to, to find Hunt’s setting for that famous hut and door. I immediately rang my friend to inform him of my new quest, he said of course that he knew this and we had planned to go but had not gotten around to it. Funny, I had forgotten. Ah, I thought, if I do not visit now, during a pandemic, then when? And now I said what I had just therein thought, relaying my apologies that I would – do it once again with you once legal.
There’s something about pre-Raph art that draws me in. It is also that same friend’s nickname of many for me, or rather not nickname but more a comment about my unruly locks. (In response to a comment from my affectionate mother, a long-running family joke now relates to my “rats’ tails”). Unruly locks, no more thanks to “ruley” lockdown. (I’m sorry I am annoying myself as I type, cannot imagine how you feel reading this.)
Perhaps it’s because the setting of so many pre-Raphaelite paintings were spots along the many bike rides from my childhood. My dad went to school along the river; it’s also the setting of one of my favourite walks, the Thames Down Link. And the pre-Raphs were also the focus of one of my favourite holidays, when about fifteen years ago, myself and a friend went to stay at her uncle’s electricity-free cottage in Coniston. We were directly opposite Brantwood and spent a whole day there. Then years later I ended up in Walthamstow living just around the corner from William Morris’ house. Suffice to say, I am a fan.
But I decided to hold off on the visit to the setting of the Light of the World. In truth I did not expect to find much. The wiki page did not seem too promising, a few bricks scattered here and there. Still I planned to go. But somehow I kept putting it off, for many reasons which again I will not bore you with. Suddenly I began to feel a little sad again and then before I knew it, we were in another lockdown and I would have to move a little north west anyway.
Advent anticipation
Ah the anticipation of Christmas in a pandemic, how lovely. I was now shielding with my aunt in West London (well, Middlesex but somehow it’s still technically London). She turned to me the week before Advent was to begin;
“You know Father Tom has asked me if I want to do an advent thingy?” Father Tom is a cousin, and a priest in Havant but from the west of Ireland like all the Gruffs seemed destined to be (maybe because the name is fabricated).
Anyway, we joined the lay community of St Benedict’s advent retreat. (NB: I have not done advent retreat in, I don’t know perhaps twenty-five years — if not longer. My dad used to help run the catechism classes, we were very involved in it all, until suddenly, very suddenly, we weren’t.
Though I do recall it involved dad falling out with yet another priest/person in authority but also my mother’s conversion to er, well I am still not sure. She was baptised a Christian, she remains a Christian, so… I don’t know. And it was not so much a conversion as a, “I’m leaving the Catholic Church, okay see ya!”)
So my aunt and I Zoomed in, the first Saturday of advent and were met with lots of warm friendly faces. Also much excitement about our surname. “Are you a relation” one doe-eyed woman asked. Surely the only acceptable answer to that is sarcastic — but it was too soon in our Zoom relationship for any of that. Father Tom welcomed us all and much to my delight announced that this cycle was about art and faith.
And what famous painting appeared on my screen, yes you guessed it!
The Holman-Hunt
So as soon as “November lockdown” — it wasn’t a lockdown but that is a debate for the historians I fear — was over, I set my sights on attempting to visit the backdrop-of-sorts for this revered piece of art. A makeshift hut was Hunt’s actual setting but assuming the hut was very definitely long gone, I settled for the former residence of the 4th Earl of Worcester, Keeper of the Great Park of nearby Nonsuch Palace; Worcester Park House. (Suffice to say I am more interested in the great houses, than huts anyway; but I hope not in any sectarian way).
I decided to do it properly, ie to anticipate the event, much like the second coming, so I went just after Christmas. Perhaps a reward-of-sorts for not being too indulgent and ensuring that this year I sent Christmas cards to people I might have felt slightly apprehensive about sending Christmas cards too. For who does not like getting a Christmas card!
So a few days ago, Patrick and I headed for the Hogsmill. It was one of those gloriously crisp winter days, the sun was bright, a little too much, so I wore my cap. Patrick was in a naughty mood but that is a standard state of affairs. He barked at one man who then subsequently retrieved my phone which had slipped from my pocket, as I had screamed at the mutt to cease annoying the man. Finding my phone gone, I discovered it was in the man’s hands via the magic of wireless headphones; I simply followed where the music was. I’m not sure if the man was trying to steal my phone, for he gave it back straight away but I am also not sure I would judge him that much if he did, for Patrick really was awful to him.
So we entered the site. It is difficult to convey how dreadfully dull the first few moments were. We slipped through some kind of pathway off a very dangerous road with no footpath. So we were grateful to be off the beaten track. But really, it was so dull, just ivy everywhere! Trailing ivy, surely this is where the painting was done for where else does one find such foliage.
We went in deeper, Patrick remained on the leash, he loves an adventure and a farm was nearby. I didn’t want to have an argument with a farmer; I would have inevitably slipped into feelings on the concept of private land so it was best Patrick remained close.
Suddenly a bulge in the ground. Well less a bulge more a trench. Hmm. Foundations? Alas I got my hopes up too soon, they just seemed to be bumps in the ground, just overgrown ivy everywhere, nothing to see here. I began to think we might need to give up. And the sun was beginning to sink.
Like the door in the painting that has clearly not been opened in a while, the ivy I was treading was just as untouched. It was simply too overgrown, even in high winter.
Long gone were the orchards that supported communities during the war, unlike in the painting. There’s fruit on the ground in Hunt’s work, an allegory for original sin they suppose. I found no fruit on the floor, only some rubbish bags and some kind of old chimney.
A tent nearby, under an evergreen. This had lately been a sanctuary for someone. Lots of rubbish bags under the tent. I grew nervous, perhaps they were still there, would I say hello?
Dead leaves everywhere, again like in the painting. I honestly came at the best time and the worst. Dark overheads, plenty of trees means little light gets below. So in some ways perhaps I should have come in summer where it’s busier but in a different way.
Then I noticed something strange peeping out of one of the bulges in the land. It looked like something… steel. Surely a discarded bit of rubbish from recent years? I climbed above the bulge, it felt higher when atop than it looked from below.
I looked down, using my foot to move some leaves. And then I realised. I wasn’t standing on a random mound of earth. I was standing on a clump of bricks!
I’ve never been so excited. I’m so rarely enthusiastic about anything, my friend once said to me that I only get excited about the strangest dullest things, which I took to be a compliment. For if one cannot see the great in the dull than where can they see it?
I began to peel back the ivy; I unleashed the dog and he quickly vanished. Ah, I thought, you’ve been reared to be far too needy to run too far. How wrong I was.
So I was really going for the ivy, pulling it back, hoping for something to appear beyond. In the painting, there is no handle on the door of the hut. Jesus is there but it only seems to be the lightest of knocks, the ball is shall we say, in your court. (Whatever Philip Pullman says about free will — have you seen HDM season 2, I have watched and loved it twice already!)
More bricks, with every tug of ivy and scattering of leaves to the side, I saw only more bricks. This is not litter, this is not a dumping ground for bricks I thought. Paddy had briefly returned and was now wagging his tail very fast, though he does love a good brick. I then jumped over the pile and then the second surprise. It was A WALL. An actual wall.
More trinkets appeared, rusty things and tilework. This was no accident, these are the ruins of a great house, I was sure of it! I felt very smug, I started imagining adding these images to the wikipedia page. Whoever came and posted those photos in 2006 would feel very jealous.
I went in deeper. Paddy had completely vanished, had run after something rather fast than I would have liked, I prayed he would not be shot, or worse attack a sheep or something. It was naughty of me and I felt great guilt but I got over it quickly enough.
Paddy eventually appeared as I discovered what seemed to be another wing of the house, more trench structures and mounds of brickwork. Further on I found bits of slate with the bricks, what seemed to be old tiles, and eventually some kind of slate flooring. It was all too much! Definitely a house, definitely.
Buoyed but by now very cold, and excited, which meant Paddy was very excitable and he is excitable at the worst of times, I decided my quest was done. But one last return to the wall. Light appeared through the trees. That weak winter sun that doesn’t quite seem weak at all.
Like the lantern, the evening sun was the bringer of light guiding our way home. This year has been full of surprises, pleasant ones as well as the bad. I felt that the discovery of what I will always insist are the house’s walls, echoed the chaos of this past year. I was determined to seek the house out, and had faith I would succeed, despite the obstacles. Much like our resilient communities during this pandemic perhaps. Such is the mystery of faith, surely the greatest mystery of them all.
These were the words of Father Tom (using this) as we sat looking at the painting during the retreat.
Imagine you are sitting in a small room in a house that is surrounded by farmland and woods. You have come here to seek the quiet and calm. The busy life of work, family, and the news of Covid have made you feel anxious and unfocused. There is all this talk about Christmas but hardly a word about its real meaning. It is difficult to avoid pessimism or fear. You know you need something; you need some time to let your mind be quiet and your heart open. Quiet and open — those words sound so peaceful and desirable but unreachable. The room is simple: a bed, a desk, and a wooden chair. The walls are bare. You’ve brought books to read and a journal to write in, but you can’t seem to do anything but sit on the chair and absorb the silence, even as you feel restless.
As you sit in the silence, you hear a faint sound like a knock on the door. Your heart races, Who knows I’m here? I need to be alone, you think. The knocking becomes louder. As much as you want to stay in the room, something moves you to go to the door. The knock comes again, but it’s a soft knock. As you approach the door, you see a light streaming under it. “Hello. Can I help you?” you say without opening the door. A soft voice says, “It’s me. I’ve been looking for you.” Something deep inside you stirs, but you are confused. “Who are you? Do I know you?” you say. “Yes. But we have not talked in a long time. I’ve missed you,” he says. You open the door.
Standing there is Jesus. His eyes look at you with such tenderness. He carries a small lantern that gives off a bright, warm light. You stand there, unable to speak at first, allowing yourself to take in his presence and his light. You speak to Jesus. What do you say to him? How does Jesus respond to you? You invite Jesus into the house. You sit and tell him of the restlessness you feel. As you talk to Jesus, a wave of peace and calm washes over you like the warm light streaming from his lantern. “Rest. Be still. You opened the door. Now let me take care of you,” Jesus says. You close your eyes and let his words embrace you. Your heart is at peace, and your mind is still. When you open your eyes, Jesus is gone. Sitting beside the chair where he sat is the lantern, still emitting that bright, warm light. You smile and rest in the glow of the light.
Two verses that helped me with this piece:
“Therefore, keep awake — for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn.” — Mark 13:35
“God is our responsibility — God’s only hope is us. If we don’t make, he ain’t gonna make it either” — James Baldwin (this is actually the start of Apollo Brown’s 2020 album, As God Intended. The first few moments of “Anti-Social” are Baldwin’s words, I feel such a song sums up this year).
